


blue like I've never known (dark grey, all alone)

by philthestone



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Panic Attacks, also mentions of Jake Peralta, and Amy Santiago Is Worried, aye, btw yeah, im weak for this time period sorry, immediately-post-season1-finale, like in Amy's thoughts all the time, poor kid tho he's all alone undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4974001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy doesn’t do change. She could tell you that without even having to think about it, without having to bat an eyelid or take a breath. She’d have been able to tell you that when she was thirteen and can tell you now, not hesitating for a heartbeat.</p><p>Order and cleanliness and structured outlines mean calm, unchanging purpose. Life stays on the straight and narrow when you have order.</p><p>Chaos means change. Chaos means transience and confusion and things slipping out of your grasp.</p><p>It should have been obvious, really, from the moment Jake (<em>chaos chaos chaos</em> chants the voice in her head) turned to her faux-serious and said that she could have all of his open cases if anything happened to him, that this was going to be weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blue like I've never known (dark grey, all alone)

**Author's Note:**

> It’s official: I have descended the FARTHEST of the far into loser detective hell. 
> 
> Some disclaimers: 1) Daphne Simmons is based on a character from think once, think twice by ao3 user Fahye (which I HIGHLY recommend) - but, yeah, all rights go to them for Daphne Simmons 2) title’s from Taylor Swift and I totally am aware that that was literally one throwaway line in The Unsolvable Case but tbh it has fueled this fic, totally and completely, so @ T Swizzle thanks for your rad music (and @ Jake thanks for having fab taste in music, u loser boy), AND, 3) not a disclaimer but I think I should mention I have never actually seen Die Hard (there are four of them?!?!). 
> 
> Basically, the motivation for this fic was mostly based on Teddy’s comments from The Roadtrip in season two, about how Amy liked Jake back before he left. Also, this might just be me, but tbh light-hearted tone of the show aside i reaaaally have to admit that I think Jake’s going undercover with the mafia was a little more dangerous and gritty than the show suggested. Hence: Amy Santiago worries. 
> 
> Reviews are that cute little face Andy makes where he bites his whole lower lip while grinning u all know the one eh

He’s been gone two weeks when she first notices the tension in her shoulders.

She comes in to work exactly on time, not a second before or after the clock, crossing the bullpen and sitting down at her desk just as she’s done almost every other day for the past eight years.

And then she stops. And flexes her shoulders, because they’re feeling uncomfortably tight. Her hand presses against the desk and Amy takes a deep breath.

She realizes, then: she’s waiting for something.

She’s been waiting for it every day for the past two weeks and it’s not come. And, honestly, the fact that she’s _been_ waiting for it is ridiculous in and of itself, because Amy Santiago is a rational, critically-thinking woman, and she knows, cognitively, intellectually – _whatever_ (all those brain-related words), that the thing she’s waiting for is unchangeably not going to be here for at least another five months, if not six.

( _If not ever_ , she finds herself thinking, sudden and abrupt and somehow she’s managed to completely shock herself into that realization, and her shoulders twinge, painfully.

 _Don’t even_ go _there_ , Santiago, she tells herself in her most authoritative voice, and turns on her computer.)

As she so clearly remembers, though, cognition and rationality and critical, focused thought have always dissolved immediately whenever her stupid partner was, like, in the general vicinity of rooms in the past, so, really, why should this time be any different?

(She conveniently reminds herself that he's not here at _all_ and tries to school her expression into "neutral" as she opens up her To Do List.)

The _point_ is, the “’Sup, Santiago,” that she’s received almost every day since the day she transferred to the Nine-Nine is missing. Bright and teasing, way-too-loud and sometimes grating on her ears, cheerful and really annoying and so, so familiar. She’s waiting for it to come at least ten minutes after she sits down and she’s waiting to roll her eyes and give a grudging-albeit-affectionate, “Good morning,” in return and she’s just – _waiting_.

Amy flexes her shoulders again and looks at Jake’s empty desk.

It’s goddamn _mocking_ her.

It’s funny, Amy thinks, that she’d be so bothered by this. It’s not a big deal. It’s not, like, he’s _died_ or something, or he’s never coming back, or even like he’s someone super important to her and she’d be so distraught if something did happen because, that’s, that’s just ridiculous. He’s Jake. He’s Jake Peralta. This is fine. This is no big deal.

He’s Jake Peralta who’s going to be hanging around the most dangerous mob bosses in New York for the next sixth months. Whose face she’s never seen as open or honest as the minute and a half beside her car on the pavement where he told her he wished something had happened between them, _romantic-stylez_.

 _God_ , this is stupid. This is so, so stupid, and ridiculous, and she shouldn’t even be considering the fact that her aching shoulders are from worry and that the worry is for him because –

Well, if nothing else, Jake’s a good detective. A great detective, even. Everything will be fine. That’s all there is to it.

Amy tugs a case file out from her desk drawer with slightly more force than necessary and places it on her desk, straightening the corners impulsively.

Her shoulders tense again, and she realizes once more that she’s waiting.

_Goddammit._

“He’s going to be fine,” she mutters under her breath, and logs in to her computer.

**

At first, she’s angry.

She’s angry at everyone and everything and she can’t figure out why, exactly – or maybe it’s not even a specific, singular Why, but a combination of Whys, just a big jumble of tangled emotions and idiocy and her own high-strung everything.

(Angry at Holt for springing this on them; angry at Rosa and Terry for appearing unaffected; angry at Gina for her usually-scheduled sarcastic barbs, somehow more hurtful than they’ve ever been; angry at Charles for dealing with it by being extra boisterous; angry at the FBI for dragging them – because _they_ are a collective, now, and not just one detective – into this whole mess; angry at Teddy for not understanding something he couldn’t possibly understand without her telling him far more than she feels she can.

Angry at Jake for practically everything all at once.)

(Angry at herself for – _caring?)_

She snaps the first time when she’s sitting at dinner with Teddy three weeks after that day in Holt’s office (and she still hasn’t told Teddy yet, either, about the parking lot, even though relationships are supposed to be built on _trust_ and _why_ can’t she trust him with this, it’s not even like it _means_ anything). She’s smiling tight-lipped smiles and trying to be normal (for her own sake or his, she’s not quite sure), but it’s kind of not working and she’s irritated by the tension she feels, the way her shoulders refuse to relax.

Teddy is sweet and kind and organized and well-mannered. Teddy never annoys her, or makes her want to smash her head into a desk, or makes fun of her, or presses her buttons. He’s honest and well-meaning and shares her interests. Teddy is a good person.

He’s also twirling his spaghetti around his fork and making a, “hm,” noise to the question she just deflected with a surprising amount of ease, shrugging his shoulders and moving forward.

“I never thought they’d actually fire him, but I guess they must have had a reason, huh?”

Amy purses her lips and pokes at her ravioli, shrugging. “I don’t know. He’s a really good detective.”

The words come out without her really thinking, and she winces automatically the moment she says them. _Wrong answer,_ says her brain. _You’re supposed to be keeping his cover, Santiago._

Teddy makes another “hm” noise, raising his eyebrows at her as though they’re sharing an inside joke. “Well, I always thought Peralta was a little funny. It’s not every day a guys just snaps like that at a whole co –”

It’s like she stops breathing for half a second.

“ _Don’t._ ” Her voice comes out before she can catch herself, and even to her it sounds too-loud and sharp. Amy realizes belatedly that her fingers are clutching her fork so tightly they’ve gone white. “Please d – just. You know what – just.” His eyebrows have jumped up in surprise at her tone. Amy swallows and finishes somewhat lamely. “Please don’t talk about something you don’t understand.”

Teddy stares at her. And then swallows, and reaches over to put a warm hand on her arm.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I know he was your partner.”

She nods, and thinks it might be jerkier than she’s ever nodded before. Teddy squeezes her arm, hesitant.

“Amy, are you okay?”

“Fine. I'm fine.”

She brushes him off and goes straight home that night, turning on the TV and watching Law and Order reruns in her old, lumpy NYPD sweater and stained pajama bottoms from five hundred years ago, probably, until early in the morning even though she knows she has work the next day and she’ll be paying for this, badly.

It’s not Teddy’s fault. She knows it isn’t. She can’t blame him.

That’s not fair. Not fair at all.

Besides, how _could_ it be Teddy’s fault? No; it’s not Teddy in the least.

What kind of asshole confesses his feelings the night before he goes undercover for the next _six months_ and possibly never returns and then leaves her _standing_ there before she can even say anything all the while _knowing_ she has a boyfriend and – and – and, well, _shit_ , what kind of grown adult actually uses the phrase “romantic stylez” in _real live actual conversation?_

It’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous. Amy takes a deep breath and throws the remote across the couch. Her shoulders ache. It’s not going away, and she’s too proud to ask Gina if she knows any good masseuses.

Amy curls back into the pillows of the couch and presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, watching stars start blinking across her blackened vision. Her ears strain of their own accord to hear the familiar ping of her phone, and once again, she finds herself waiting.

(They’ve fallen into the routine without even realizing it, and somehow he’s managed to snag her phone and program some really weird, really dumb jangling sound as the notification sound for his texts and he texts her all the time, everything from the colour of some passerby’s hair that he found cool to the fact that he unearthed an old half-crushed packet of Smarties in his back pocket and they taste kinda funny but he’s eating them anyway; how’s she?

She never gets around to actually changing the notification sound and he never listens to her pleas for him to _not text me at three in the freaking morning about peeing elephants, Peralta,_ and it becomes normal, and easy, and reflexive.

And now it’s gone.)

No, she thinks; that’s not fair, either. It’s not Jake’s fault. He was just being honest, and open, because he’s Jake and that’s definitely what he always does.

The thing is, she so desperately wants to say that she feels so thrown because it’s _not_ what he always does – because he’s Jake Peralta and Jake Peralta and Mature Adult Feelings just can’t go in the same sentence together, obviously – but the more she thinks about it the more she realizes that that’s so far from the truth; that he’s always been completely, one-hundred-percent out in the open with her, whether it be unsolicited advice on how she should behave around Holt (“who cares what Holt thinks?” plays on a loop in her head on the worst days, when her anxiety makes her lose focus and fumble over words) or recounting a horrendously awful date (and she feels a funny flutter of pride that _theirs_ went on the Good Date List, cashews and criminals and failure to humiliate Amy Santiago notwithstanding).

She turns off the television and tries to sleep. Her phone tells her that she has a goodnight text from Teddy (her _boyfriend_ , reminds a voice in her head) and she tosses it to the other side of the couch to join the TV remote before she can double-check for any other texts that definitely aren’t coming because undercover means no contact with anyone you knew, ever.

(The text would read, _theres like 20 bird s outside my windw santiago_ and she’d reply, _Why are you texting me about birds at two in the goddamn morning_ , and he’d send her twenty plus ridiculous emojis that she’d spend the next five minutes deciphering even though it’s two in the morning and she really, really needs to be well-rested because tired Amy means grumpy, irritable Amy, and that’s just no help to anyone at all.)

She’s still angry when she steps into work in the next morning, and her shoulders hurt more than ever.

**

She decides that it’s because of the suddenness of it all.

Amy Santiago has lived her entire life based on planning and forethought and premeditation. She has rules and schedules and colour-coded lists to keep her from stumbling, from falling, from outright panicking.

Panicking.

She isn’t panicking, not at all. She’s just – not handling the sudden and abrupt change the way she might have had she had maybe a solid three, four weeks to mull it over in advance.

Holt assigns her a new (temporary) partner a month after Jake leaves. Ahmed Patel is young and greener than anyone else in the precinct and he smiles at her politely when he comes into work in the mornings, keeps his files stacked neatly in a corner of his desk and always packs celery sticks in his lunch. After a week, Amy drops her pen and asks for him to be reassigned.

He starts working cases with Charles and Amy is partnered with Rosa.

She works well with Rosa. Rosa understands her need for order, for rules, even if she doesn’t need those rules herself. She’s good at interrogating perps and throws covert, tiny-as-hell grins in Amy’s direction when it’s clear that no one else can see and she’d unequivocally punch someone in the face if they ever hurt Amy, which is a nice thing to know. 

She’s got Amy’s back. It feels good, to have that support again.

 _Again_ , as though she ever actually lost it.

Amy doesn’t do change. She could tell you that without even having to think about it, without having to bat an eyelid or take a breath. She’d have been able to tell you that when she was thirteen and can tell you now, not hesitating for a heartbeat.

Order and cleanliness and structured outlines mean calm, unchanging purpose. Life stays on the straight and narrow when you have order.

Chaos means change. Chaos means transience and confusion and things slipping out of your grasp.

It should have been obvious, really, from the moment Jake ( _chaos chaos chaos_ chants the voice in her head) turned to her faux-serious and said that she could have all of his open cases if anything happened to him, that this was going to be weird.

(Eyes closed head first can’t lose _oh God what if something happens to him_.)

She tells herself that this isn’t permanent, and therefore isn’t change. It’s something that has happened, as things do, and in a few months the desk across from hers will go back to its usual state of disarray and her phone will start buzzing with nigh-undecipherable texts again and she’ll pretend not to laugh at every dumb joke that gets cracked across from her every five minutes, just like she used to.

The tension in her shoulders builds; the stupid desk is still mocking her.

She’s not worried, anymore, she decides. She’s just handling a situation with less finesse than she might have otherwise because it was sprung on her without any time to prepare for it. She’s stressed because she has a lot of work to do at the precinct, just now, a lot of open cases to solve and lots of people’s safety riding on her shoulders. Her relationship with Teddy is a little tense, is spoken aloud to her bathroom mirror at nine-thirty at night. It’s normal to be anxious like this, she tells her coffee cup in the morning, slipping into the seat of her car and doing her seatbelt. She’s had anxiety most of her life. This is no different.

Her mother puts a hand on Amy’s shoulder the next time she visits for dinner, in the spare moment they have to breathe through the crowded family clamor as they do the dishes after everyone’s finished eating. Luis is doing impersonations in the next room and her Dad and Carlos are laughing uproariously and someone, probably Raphe’s wife Maricia, turned on the TV for the nieces and nephews and Julian is still wiping down the dining room table in the other room. Amy is helping with the dishes.

Amy knows without asking that her mother sees through the tired grins and small smiles and detects the tightness around Amy’s eyes even through the plainly-applied makeup.

“What’s wrong, Amy?”

Amy rinses the soap suds off of one of the patterned plates and shrugs, deflecting the pressure of her mother’s hand with a tight smile.

“It’s nothing. Open case at work – I’m just, a little stressed, _Mamita_ , that’s all.”

Her mother hesitates and hands her a handful of silverware, crease appearing between her eyebrows. _Open case_ is something her family of three cops (also one banker, one drama teacher, a chef, an engineer, an elementary school principal and one nurse, but that’s not the point) and a history of medals of valor can understand. But still:

“You take care of yourself, _mija_. Don’t work too hard and make yourself sick.”

“I know,” says Amy. “I’m – it’s. Everything’s fine.” Everything seems to be upside down, like that time she went three days without sleeping in college and almost collapsed in her Introduction to Statistics class, or when she spent the afternoon feeling sick and woozy from the sudden spike in her blood sugar because she’d been dared to eat a whole bag full of watermelon Jolly Ranchers (her favorite kind, the preference surviving even that infamous afternoon of groaning and sickly-red tongue) and – well, goddammit, it was Jake who dared her to do that stupid-ass thing in the first place, wasn’t it?

She wants nothing more than to press her face against her mother’s floral shirt and sob away this tension in her neck that she still can’t seem to figure out, but she runs her sudsy hands under the scalding water from the tap instead and takes a deep breath.

“I’m fine.”

“Alright. Tell that to your friends at work, too – you all work too hard. I’ve raised cops, I know. And you tell that boy Jacob to get some sleep now and then, yes? The last time I saw him he was far too skinny.”

Amy digs her nails into the worn dishtowel and nods, tries not to remember the last time Jake had seen her family - when a combination of holiday spirit and probably-unhealthy compassion prompted her to invite him over for Christmas dinner so he wouldn't be alone and somehow it hadn't been a disaster. They'd ended up staying up until three in the morning camped out in her childhood room, him in a sleeping bag on the floor and her on her old twin bed, whispering at each other like teenagers and giggling for reasons that Amy can't quite remember but leave a pleasant, warm feeling in her chest. It wasn't the first time her mom had met Jake, but Amy thinks that something about cheerfully peeling potatoes for a Santiago Family Event and loosing miserably at soccer in the snow-covered front yard solidifies one's status as an unofficial member of The Club, and her mother's words echo in her head and make her wonder if Jake's getting enough sleep because that's a thing he does, goes for hours and hours without bothering to take care of himself because he's so fixated on a problem and - 

She begs a headache and heads home earlier than she ever has before.

**

She spends two weeks avoiding Teddy before she realizes she’s being incredibly unfair and asks him if he wants to grab dinner.

She’s been avoiding everyone, actually, when she stops to think about it. She hasn’t called Kylie in ages aside from a couple texts and that one time they Skyped, but Amy deflected her questions; she had to, she reasoned, because she couldn’t just go around revealing her anxiety over a colleague who was in a Highly Sensitive And Also Classified Situation to anyone, even if that anyone _was_ her best friend, clad in a Hello Kitty tank top and patiently braiding her thick dark hair against her head for bed, waiting for Amy to explain why her makeup-less complexion vaguely resembled a dead fish with legs rather than its usual tan.

She’s jittery when she visits her parents every other week and always feels like she’s on autopilot when the squad goes to Shaw’s on Fridays, and she’s somehow managed to be Supremely Awkward even _more_ than usual every time she’s in the same room as Captain Holt. It’s almost a personal record that gets updated every two hours, and if Jake were there he’d have already added a column to the corner of the whiteboard: Number Of Times Santiago Somehow Manages To Act Like A Weirdo In Front Of The Captain In One Day, with at _least_ twenty tallies on it per day, if not more. As it is, Charles has perfected the art of shooting her sympathetic looks over people’s shoulders and Terry’s pained expression could probably be passed for a marketable skill. Rosa just rolls her eyes. 

Amy doesn’t think Gina’s looked up from her phone long enough to notice Amy making a fool of herself, which is _strange_ , because Gina loves capitalizing on Amy’s foolishness, but she decides to ignore that and take the blessing without asking too many questions (and pretending that Gina hasn't been quieter than usual in _general_ , something that Amy feels awful for noticing so belatedly).

Well. Maybe she’s not avoiding people, exactly, though all signs point to the fact that maybe she should, just to discontinue any further abject humiliation and/or the metaphorical sensation of rubbing her forehead against a cheese grater. Which isn’t a fun thing at all, but she can’t think of any reasonable explanation for it other than the fact that she’s high-strung, and high-strung Amy’s life is just that much more exponentially difficult.

(And maybe _maybe,_ if she’s in a generous, introspective mood, a little tiny bit of it is because she _doesn’t_ have the column on the white board, and neither Charles nor Terry nor Rosa nor Gina have the heart or patience to tease her shamelessly about said awkwardness, and that the fact that she hasn’t heard the phrase “title of Santiago’s sex tape” in over a month is lowkey making her want to stand on her balcony and scream, just a little bit.)

Teddy’s more than understanding but quiet, and Amy manages to smile her way through the evening without faltering once. The heavy warmth of his hand on hers is soothing and soft, easing some of the tension in her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, later. His face is inches away from her own and he pauses, frowning.

“What?”

“For being so – I’ve been awful. And – weird. And unfair. I shouldn’t have – I just. Sorry.”

He shrugs. (His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but she doesn’t want to notice that just then.) “It’s fine, Amy. You’ve had to deal with a lot at work. I get it.”

She nods, grasping his hands in her own. “Yeah.”

“So we’re good?”

“We’re good.”

Teddy is safe. Teddy is not complicated ( _should_ not be complicated). She cares a lot for Teddy.

( _I wish that something could have happened –_

The desk is still mocking her the next day at work, too-clean and empty. Her shoulders twinge.)

**

She’s good at making lists, so she makes one to try and rationalize her own worry, because by this point she’s not stupid enough _or_ stubborn enough to tell herself that she isn’t worried. (She does _not_ make a list of the reasons why Jake’s confession could have held any water, because that is quite frankly dangerous territory, and despite her undying love for lists, Amy is _really_ not feeling dangerous, just then.)

And, well – why _shouldn’t_ she be worried? Amy’s known enough cops to know, even though she’s never done it before herself, that undercover work is no metaphorical frolic in the metaphorical meadow. And this isn’t just, you know, normal undercover work where you pretend to be a janitor in a building for a couple weeks to listen in on conversation going on in the right wing stairwell to bust some small-time drug dealers, or where you give a fake name upon entering a club all dressed up in horribly itchy, probably mouldy age-old Halloween costumes with Charles by your side. This is big stuff, mob stuff, _FBI stuff,_ like, _woah_ , that came out of left field, didn’t it?

The mafia aren’t some drunk assholes making too much of a racket on the side of the street on the eve of an (albeit disgusting) holiday.

She keeps the list hidden in the inner recesses of her bag, adding to it every time she gets a brainwave of inspiration, anything from _his cover could get blown and he could die_ to _he might not laugh as much when he comes back._

Except, this turns out to be totally and completely useless and basically just heightens any anxiety that might have been there initially, so she throws it out (colour-coded margins and all), shredded to tiny little pieces and dumped in her kitchen garbage can. Instead, she starts a list of all the reasons she _shouldn’t_ be worried, because that makes more sense, right, to put her mind at ease? If that is her eventual goal – because _seriously_ , she just needs to chill, and wait, damn, that’s something Jake would say – “seriously, Santiago, you need to _chill_ ” – and the _point_ is, she needs to calm down and focus because worry, however justifiable, over her absent co-worker and maybe-best-friend and partner in not-crime’s well-being ( _partner in not-crime,_ and there she goes slipping back into Peraltaisms again) is not conducive to – well, _anything_ , actually.

 _Maybe-best-friend._ That’s … pretty accurate, if Amy thinks about it rationally (like she always does, obviously), if she lays out all the facts like the great, fantastic, super competent detective she is. They have inside jokes that no one else can understand; they text each other all the time including-but-not-limited-to the very early hours of the morning; he tells her about every date he goes on as a normal routine and she helps him categorize them as Good Dates and Bad Dates; she nags him about cleanliness and healthy eating habits and he makes goofy faces at her back and flutters his eyelashes when she sticks her tongue out at him; and he spends every waking hour of his day that isn’t solving cases or goofing off with Charles or making Captain Holt look constipated or going on failed dates annoying the hell out of her, which somehow devolves into Amy pretending to be annoyed but in reality trying not to laugh at his antics.

Which – wait. That sounds more like siblings, doesn’t it? Right, Amy decides, unwavering and firm. That’s it, then. They’re like some sort of quasi-sibling duo that’s just become such by dint of knowing and working alongside each other for the past seven years, so it is completely normal to be worried about him, even though she’s not worried anymore, because she went over this, _good detective_ and _not even that risky of a situation_ and _he’ll be fine_.

(Except _obviously_ Jake doesn’t think of her as a sister, but, you know, she’s just going to resolutely _not think about that at all_ ever again for the rest of eternity to preserve what’s left of her own sanity. He was probably just nervous, right? Adrenaline high; she’s known him long enough to know that he says really, really stupid stuff when on adrenaline highs.)

( _Eyes closed head first can’t lose._ )

She’s come to a conclusion, and it’s the most safe conclusion she’s come to thus far (tension in her shoulders be damned) so she smiles a little more freely when she greets Teddy on their more-frequent-than-ever dates, the ones that she’s scheduling as often as she can now in compensation for the month and a half that she begged hectic chaos at work and avoided him for reasons that she’s not quite sure she can even explain.

**

She’s still putting her all in at work, but that’s something she’s always done – meticulously on-time and rarely ever taking days off and actually enjoying herself, too, Amy Santiago who gets straight A-pluses and never breaks the rules and has not once in her life wasted the NYPD’s internet resources on checking personal social media websites at work. The fact that she still isn’t sleeping well can be easily explained by her suspiciously lumpy mattress which has literally never bothered her before, or the fact that she’s drinking coffee, maybe, even though she’s been drinking coffee every day of her life since she turned sixteen. They put away two bank robbers and one identity thief (small time), and a guy named Joe Uterus who Amy spends a childishly long time giggling about (to herself only, because she _does_ have a rep to uphold) but doesn’t have the heart to put on the Weird Names list without Jake there. It isn’t until she’s assigned a homicide case involving a single mother and three cats and leads that are leading her _absolutely nowhere_ that she starts calling Teddy to reschedule those carefully scheduled date nights and begins staying overtime at the precinct, drawing up woefully skeletal evidence boards and being inches away from a full-out nervous breakdown eighty percent of the hours of the day because she just. Can’t. Seem. To solve it.

It’s a Wednesday night and she’s exhausted herself trying to bring in her own collar and deal with Daphne Simmons the con-artist sitting in front of her (obnoxiously snapping her gum and feigning innocence) at once. Amy swears Rosa’s got her dead-to-rights if only they’d find her accomplice before the night’s out, because seriously, falling to the ground in a seizure six times in a row all on dates with wealthy middle-aged men who prided themselves on having a beautiful blond at their elbow for the evening and despaired over their suddenly vanished wallets upon departing the hospital is just – _so_ obvious, so pathetically obvious except they can’t arrest her without proof of her accomplice and Amy thinks she might punch something if Daphne actually opens her mouth and replies to the question, “Can you explain to me how anyone without a medical history of seizures manages to have six in a row and be completely unaffected,” with, “It’s a medical miracle, Detective.”

Daphne snaps her gum again.

“It’s a medical miracle, Detective.”

“Alright, lady, _look_ –”

But Daphne’s already perked up and is cheerfully ignoring Amy’s probably-slightly-crazed look of frustration because the radio (which is playing on medium volume from the corner of the bullpen; Captain Holt had to leave early for a meeting with the Deputy Commissioner and by some sort of divinely-bestowed, never-before-seen magic they all managed to agree on a station) has just started playing a different song.

“Oooh, I love Taylor Swift!” says Simmons. “Turn the volume up!”

Amy lets her forehead smash into the desk in front of her (ignoring the jarred feeling in her neck) right as Rosa bursts into the precinct, vaguely out-of-breath and looking murderous.

“Damn bastard got away,” she snaps, practically ripping off her jacket and tossing it onto her chair. “Lost me in the crowds.”

Amy feels like her entire life, at that moment in time, could probably be represented by the three-day-old bacon grease Scully had licked off of tinfoil in the break room two weeks ago, and doesn’t even look up when Daphne Simmons smiles sweetly and says,

“I can go now, right?”

She tries to keep her voice as emotionless as possible. “Fine. Yes. Get out.”

She feels Rosa’s presence at her side before she actually lifts her head up, refusing to subject herself to watching Daphne Simmons saunter happily out of the precinct. When she does look up, there’s something hot and painful pressing against the back of her eyeballs and Rosa’s got her arms crossed, looking down at her with a slightly softer expression than the “I am going to murder the specks of dust in the air” that she was wearing two minutes ago.

“Hey. You okay?”

Amy clutches the pen on her desk and stares at her. “Am I _okay?_ ”

“Yeah. You seem tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s cool. We’ll catch Simmons next time. She’s dumbass enough to try it again.”

“I said I’m _fine_. Can someone turn off that damn radio?”

Rosa seems to consider her options for a moment – the soft crooning of Taylor’s _Red_ (not his favorite one, Amy remembers reflexively, because _Love Story_ is more fun to sing along to and _Trouble_ has, like, literally the best chorus ever) providing interesting background music to their disaster of a night – before shrugging and rocking back on her feet. “Alright, whatever, but you’re freaking out over this.”

“I am _not_ freaking out,” Amy manages, barely choking out the words. _Pathetic, Santiago._

“You’re wearing your ‘Amy Santiago is five freaking seconds from having a mental breakdown’ face,” says Rosa, making a face. “Don’t bullshit me, Santiago.”

“Fine!” Amy doesn’t even realize she’s thrown down her pen, but she does notice that she shoulders _really goddamn hurt. “Fine_ , I might be freaking out, because honestly, I’ve been chasing this _stupid_ perp for a whole _freaking_ month now and getting _nowhere_ because all of my leads are _useless_ and my brain doesn’t seem to _work_ and I swear to God I’d have already figured this _dumb_ thing out if Jake were here helping me but that’s not going to happen because he’s _still_ gone and God knows if he’s even still _alive_ and _Daphne Simmons chews her gum with her mouth open_.” She might be breathing a little bit hard and a little bit erratic, and her hand hit the side of the desk when she gesticulated in the middle of her possibly-crazed outburst, so, you know, _that_ really hurts. She’s not looking at Rosa, either; she’s staring at the desk across from hers, still not messy enough, still not occupied enough for comfort. She realizes that she probably should be looking at Rosa, though, so she does, simultaneously wanting to rip out her own spinal cord to stop the tight throbbing in her shoulders.

“Jesus, Santiago, are you gonna _cry_?”

Typical.

“ _No_ ,” says Amy, dangerously close to tears. “It’s just – I’m _really_ done with this – just – oh, screw off, Diaz.”

Rosa continues looking at her for what is possibly five or six seconds (Amy is too overtired to actually count it) and then scrunches her eyebrows in a funny way that Amy realizes afterwards is sympathy.

That’s new.

(Not really; Amy has it on good authority that Rosa can be what is called “a good friend” in a pinch. Or, you know, not in a pinch, but also in normal everyday life, because Rosa cares a lot about the small circle of people she’s picked for herself and under all the scary looks and caustic comments, she’s always ready to threaten to strong arm Life to the ground in the event that it rears its ugly head.

She’s also brutally honest and laughs at you to your face, which is generally nice-ish, and is only a little bit worse at feelings than Amy is.

Also, Amy just revealed way more to her than she ever should have, ever, so thank God for Rosa, who crushes the possibility of Amy overthinking anything she said under the metaphorical heel of her not-quite-metaphorical leather boot immediately.)

“I’ll help you catch your perp. Tomorrow, we’ll set up the board again. Catch the sonuva bitch. Got it?”

Amy nods, because by this point she doesn’t even trust herself to speak anymore but can’t exactly flee to the break room because that would be way too obvious and, as mentioned, she has _some_ semblance of a reputation, thank you very much. Instead, she settles for unconsciously turning her eyes back to Jake’s empty desk and stubbornly ignoring the throbbing in her neck and shoulders.

She also ignores the way Rosa’s eyes go with hers to the damn desk _(mock mock mock mock,_ it sings at her in a voice that sounds unnervingly like Jake’s) and settle there. They’re both quiet for a moment before Rosa returns her nod, walks back to her desk and starts to pack up her stuff for the night.

**

Stupidly enough, everything comes to a peak a rough three months after he leaves (three weeks after Amy starts the homicide case and one week after she nearly impales Daphne Simmons the gum-snapping con-artist with her ballpoint pen – and, immediately, Amy thinks of the categories she’d brandished in Jake’s face in the evidence lock up that day; Criminals We Let Go. Jake 1, Amy … now also 1). Amy uses the phrase “everything comes to a peak” very, _very_ reluctantly, because that’s just a phrase that’s used in reference to literary climaxes and maybe chemical reactions (she studied Art History, so _she_ doesn’t know). But it does – it _is_ a sort of climax, that is, and because nothing at all can happen to them normally, it is one _hell_ of a climax.

Amy hasn’t had a panic attack since she was seventeen and almost failing calculus. She’s spent the past seven years remembering how terrifying that was to keep her anxiety at bay. Panicking never helps anything at all, she knows. 

The invisible _thing_ tugging at the tops of her shoulder blades is still happily squatting behind her neck, and it’s close to the end of her shift and she’s really looking forward to just going home and collapsing facedown onto her bed, bypassing any notion of dinner. She never did ask Gina for a masseuse recommendation, and she’s not quite sure if she regrets it or not. Gina is doing something undoubtedly vitally important on her phone, perfectly-shellaqued way-too-elaborate Amy-pities-her-manicurist nails tapping the corner of the phone’s pink gilded case rhythmically. Charles, long since having abandoned his Matrix-esque angst gettup of doom, is buried nose deep in a mountain of case files, muttering distractedly to himself. Rosa is pacing in front of the holding cell, occasionally shooting quelling glares at any of the few lonely perps that are brave enough to act out or start complaining from the other side of the glass. Terry is in the interrogation room, smelling of Sharon’s Specially Made For The Precinct snickerdoodles and drilling a collar they brought in just that morning. Captain Holt is in his office, likely doing very important captain-y things.

It’s been a long day, and Amy’s tired already (has been tired for what she surmises must be the entirety of the past three months), and thankful that she’s seeing Teddy tomorrow night and not _tonight_ , successfully bypassing any Tired Amy Santiago-induced disasters that may or may not occur if she’s anywhere in his general vicinity today.

And then Rosa looks up from the phone in her hand, face suddenly and inexplicably pale (Rosa doesn’t _do_ pale, Amy knows by now) having stopped abruptly at the door to the holding pen. Her eyes immediately flick over the bullpen and meet Amy’s.

Something is wrong. Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong, _something is wrong –_

“A buddy of mine in the seventy-eight just –” Rosa seems to be having difficulty getting her usually brusque and to-the-point statements out, which would set off alarm bells in Amy’s head even if her co-worker _didn’t_ look thoroughly spooked (or rather, if her olive skin wasn’t an infinitesimal shade lighter and her eyes hadn’t widened slightly, which is pretty damn spooked for Rosa Diaz.) “There was a shoot-out near Prospect Park and – there were – it was gangs. Probably some minor shits trying to prove their worth, but – ” She glances down at the phone again and inhales sharply. _And then, the kicker_ : “Iannuci’s people were there. The seventy-eighth brought some of ‘em in. I – shit. _Shit_. People got killed.”

It takes a few seconds for the reality of Rosa’s words to sink in. It isn’t until Charles lets a slip of paper fall from his fingers and back onto the desk, standing up and asking, “Ianucci? Wasn’t that –” that Amy remembers to breathe.

“ _Boyle_ ,” snaps Rosa, cutting him off before he can get further ( _wasn’t that the guys Jake’s with,_ and as much as Amy can sympathize with blurting out information when you’re half-panicked, dammit, Charles, Jake got _fired_ , remember, he’s not near any mob bosses or gang shoot-outs or – _oh, God._ ) Charles clamps his mouth back closed immediately, as if jarred back to the reality of the rather large number of civilians and Scully and Hitchcock and Gina and other cops and Ahmed Patel, and, just, literally everyone in the room other than herself and Rosa.

Amy has to remind herself to breathe again.

Rosa’s eyes flick back to Amy’s.

“Um,” she says, and then goes back to her phone, typing rapid-fire. Amy turns to look at Charles, who she honestly expected to be reacting differently, only he’s just sort of gone really quiet and is clutching the edge of his desk very, very tightly.

Amy swallows. And turns back to her computer, where she was writing up a report for – God, she can’t even remember anymore. She rereads the last sentence.

“… unclear what the motive of the mother was; her alibi was …”

 _What?_ Amy feels herself grapple for the discontinued train of thought, very suddenly aware of the dryness of her mouth and how her heart has sped up, pounding in her ears.

_Her alibi was …_

Weak? Strong? Undeniably plausible but also suspicious due to the selection of other circumstances surrounding it? Vaguely, Amy registers Rosa moving across the bullpen, pushing roughly past Gina’s desk. There’s the click of a door opening and closing in Amy’s periphery, but she keeps her eyes trained on her computer.

_Her alibi was …_

(People were killed. People were killed, people were killed, killed, _killed_ –)

She needs to breathe, because she’s stopped doing that again, and breathing’s generally known to be an important aspect of staying alive. Maybe it’s just the air in the bullpen, she thinks, so she’s pushing out of her desk and getting to her feet without having figured out exactly what she’s planning to do once on them. By the break room door, the bathroom sign catches her eye and she’s walking towards it, past Charles (still gripping the edge of his desk) and Patel (murmuring something to one of the other officers – Padmore, or something) and Scully and Hitchcock (gaping at each other in confusion). She’s not sure how she makes it to the sink, or when she gets the idea that splashing cold water on her face will make her feel better, but by the time she’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror in the ladies’ room her heartbeat’s pounding louder than ever in her ears and her eyes aren’t focusing properly. The pink of her blouse looks funny in the bathroom lights, almost red, and it’s weird because her hair is perfectly smoothed into place and all the creases on her shirt are perfectly ironed and she doesn’t look at all the part of someone who feels like she’s hanging upside down, the same way she felt when she and Luis went to Coney Island that time with their uncle and Luis bet her she’d be too chicken to try the Cyclone so she just had to do it, to prove him wrong. That had been a bad idea, Amy remembers, just as right now coming to the bathroom seems to be a bad idea; the lights are too bright, all of a sudden, and her head is pounding so she can’t think straight, and this is ridiculous because there is absolutely _no_ reason why she’s like this, right now. Amy swallows forcefully and pushes up the sleeves of her jacket so they won’t get wet.

Killed killed killed killed killed – 

Her fingers fumble with the tap, shaking, and she realizes that she’s thinking about several things, all of which can be summarized down to:

a) The fact that she might not ever actually hear his laugh again; b) that there could be a decided lack of tootsie roll wrappers flung at her from across the desk henceforth; and, c) that wrangling Die Hard references out from Rosa is like pulling teeth and Charles always, _always_ overdoes it.

She’s also thinking of the feeling of elation after beating him in a case and pulling goofy faces at each other behind the Sarge’s back during briefings and gross stakeouts where they accidentally-on-purpose spill personal information and _oh, God,_ she won’t be able to tell him about Joe Uterus that they put away two weeks ago because he could be –

The pain in her neck is almost unbearable and she’s hunched over the sink, feeling the build-up of the past three months of niggling worry and burgeoning anxiety and exhaustion and frustration pressing against her throat. Amy sucks in air raggedly, squeezing her eyes shut and opening them again to clear her vision.

That’s not working for her either, though, because she keeps choking on her breaths and her vision is dancing with black spots and she can’t quite feel her legs or fingers anymore.

There – oh, _damn_ , there it is, and she was pretty stupid not to notice it coming, but God _damn_ it, she’s having a panic attack.

_Oh, shit._

(Killed killed killed killed killed killed killedkilledkilledkilled –)

There’s a bang, some sort of sound behind her suddenly and someone’s voice; she turns around, sees Halsley from downstairs emerging from one of the stalls and about to say _hello_.

The other woman’s face draws in concern almost immediately.

“Detective Santiago? Are you alright?”

Amy opens her mouth to respond but the words get stuck and she’s shaking her head frantically, because her voice has somehow gotten lodged with all that air she’d been dragging in earlier and it’s just created this big, strained, painful block in her chest, pressing heavily on her larynx from the inside. Her fingers press against the cold ceramic of the sink behind her and she chokes again, trying to swallow against the block in her chest.

“Oh, my God, is everything –”

And that’s when the bathroom door slams open and Rosa’s there, Amy barely registering her harsh voice swearing loudly before she’s grabbing Amy by the arm and swivelling her around, holding her face to face.

“Amy! Amy, look at me, you need to breathe.”

She’s trying. She really is, she’s _trying so damn hard –_

( _Killedkilledkilledkilledkilledkilled_ )

“Is there anything I can –”

“No, I’ve got her, just – Santiago, Jesus, come on – don’t – breathe with me, girl, you gotta keep breathing.”

It’s like every missed text message and the ever-pressing frustration of dead-ended cases and the tension in her smile have sucker-punched her in the lungs allatonce, every swallowed-back sob and every second of that moment in the parking lot she’s overthought in the past three months, every Daphne Simmons with her pink bubblegum and every time she avoided Teddy without meaning to – it’s all coming up into her mouth at once and she wants to sob it out but it’s lodged there, like one of those Jolly Ranchers Jake dared her to eat only instead of melting in her mouth she’s accidentally swallowed it whole and it’s enlarged and lodged in her airway.

“I –” Amy’s choking on her words, too, not just her breath anymore, but she watches Rosa’s dark eyes stare at her unwavering and she _needs to explain_. “He – I didn’t – I’m – ”

“I talked to Holt,” Rosa is saying, her voice sounding funny and echoing, but also firm and gentle and leaking through the pounding in Amy’s ears. “Listen to me, he’s in contact, it’s fine. Everything’s _fine_.”

Rosa keeps her hands clenched on Amy’s biceps, counting for her – _one, two, one, two, c’mon, Santiago_. Amy swallows against the pressure and tries not to be overwhelmed by the throbbing in her neck that’s spread up to the base of her skull, focusing on aligning her breathing with Rosa’s counts. _One, two, one, two,_ he’s fine, it’s fine, you’re fine.

 _Everything’s fine_.

Slowly, she feels the air flood her lungs normally. Swallowing becomes easier, so she does that, and her head stops pounding, the throb of her neck and sound of her heart ebbing away until they’re just an echo. Rosa’s fingers are still digging into her biceps, and Amy realizes, suddenly, that, one, her cheeks are a little wet (she’s belated embarrassed, mortified by the blatant display of vulnerability and what kind of professional NYPD detective has an emotional breakdown in the ladies’ bathroom over a gang shoot-out), and, two, that Halsley is no longer in the room – but Gina is.

Rosa gives her arms a squeeze.

“Hey. You back with us?”

Amy takes a deep, shaky breath and nods, closing her eyes and turning to face the mirror. Rosa isn’t having any of it, though, and she squeezes Amy’s arms again.

“Amy.”

“I’m fine,” she whispers, mumbles, because maybe if it was just Rosa she’d admit to it, but Gina’s there as well and Gina is just – _Gina_.

“You –” Rosa starts, obviously intent on arguing, but one set of brightly-painted fingers tugs at Rosa’s shoulder and Gina steps forward, rolling her eyes.

“Give her some room, Diaz.” Rosa makes an annoyed noise, but Gina ignores her, deftly prying the hands from Amy’s biceps and patting down the shoulders of Amy’s suit jacket. “This is _not_ a disaster, you two. We all knew Amy would have a total nervous breakdown one of these days.”

“Thanks,” mutters Amy; Rosa snorts unhelpfully.

“Seriously, boo,” Gina says, moving her hand up from Amy’s shoulders to pat down her hair, too. “You just had to get it all out. I feel ya.”

Amy blinks. “You – you do?”

She’s wondered frequently in the past months how much Gina knows, because if Amy’s honest, she _is_ the one who’s known Jake the longest – of all of them, she deserved to know, to not be thrown into sudden and shocking radio silence. She’s still not sure, but Amy feels her chest loosen slightly when Gina’s greenblue eyes turn softer than she’s ever seen them before and she quirks the tiniest of reassuring grins before reaching back onto the counter. The presence of the two zipped-up bags on the edge of the counter had slipped past Amy, and she swallows when Gina opens one and hands the other to Rosa.

“Check that one for mascara, will you?”

“Oh,” says Amy, “oh, it’s fine, I’ve got my own –”

“Girl, you are not walking out there looking like – _that_.” Gina’s hands are digging through the little purple plastic purse, but the sweeping gesturing to all of Amy's appearance is implied.

“How much crap d’you have _in_ here, Linetti?” says Rosa, her eyebrows raised approvingly at the contents of the other purse; black, with glittering rhinestones decorating the front.

“ _Enough_ , Diaz, e- _nough_.” Gina directs her _duh_ look at Amy and picks up her train of thought where she left off without missing a beat. “I mean, I don’t know how you _ever_ walk out, cause you’re always looking like _‘that’_ , but this time it is just going too far. Aha!” She pulls out an eyeliner pencil and brandishes in Amy’s face. “Got it – your colour, too, Amy, this is like an alignment of the stars.”

Amy takes the pencil from her and feels herself smile weakly despite herself. “Thanks, Gina.”

“I _am_ the best,” Gina agrees. Amy doesn’t miss how she glances at Rosa and, for once, seems to read Rosa’s look correctly before shrugging once and breezing out of the bathroom, leaving behind the makeup bags, one more cheek-pat, and an awkward little shoulder wiggle that Amy swears is the most comforting thing Gina’s ever done for her.

Amy stands there in the bathroom, clutching the eyeliner pencil and looking at Rosa. Three beats go by before it gets awkward-ish, and Amy blurts out the first thing that comes into her head.

“I really don’t know why I –”

“You got any Disney movies at your place?” asks Rosa, and honestly it’s so the _last_ thing Amy would have ever expected her to say that she stands there for another moment, opening and closing her mouth soundlessly.

“I – what?”

Rosa gives her a Look. “Disney movies. At home. You.”

“Um,” says Amy, wetting her lips. “Um. I – I don’t think. No?”

“God, Santiago, how do you _live?_ ”

“I have Netflix!”

Rosa rolls her eyes again, tugging a mascara wand out of the black bag and handing it to Amy without any further preamble, setting the bag down on the counter and crossing her arms. “Fine. You go home, put on your old lady nightdresses, or whatever, and I’ll bring the movies. I’m not blowing cash on popcorn, though, that’s all you.”

Amy blinks at her. “What?”

“I’m not letting you go home to overthink shit tonight,” says Rosa, shrugging. “You’re exhausted, you’re worried, I get it. Me too. So, we’re making a night of it.” She narrows her eyes. “You better have popcorn.”

Amy swallows again, which is getting easier to do with each passing beat, and finds herself nodding. She’s not sure how this is going to end or where it’s going, but the fact that Rosa’s offering her company is – well, really welcome, actually.

“I’ll pick some up on my way home,” Amy promises.

“Cool,” says Rosa, rocking back on her feet. “My shift ends later than yours. Expect me at seven. Also – ” she hesitates, again, which reminds Amy of the night that Daphne Simmons walked out of the bullpen and they both spent a second too long staring at Jake’s old desk. Rosa clears her throat and her eyes, lined thickly with her own eyeliner, soften. “It’s all okay. Holt’s got it under control, you know.”

Amy nods, clutching the makeup in her hand a little more tightly. “Yeah. I know. I’m not sure why I –”

“Santiago,” Rosa cuts across her, and Amy grimaces sheepishly. “I said don’t bullshit me, okay?”

“Got it,” says Amy. Rosa grins.

( _He’s fine, you’re fine, everything’s fine._ )

Rosa shows up with a backpack full of movies and her old-as-balls VCR player stuffed into a giant backpack slung over her leather-clad shoulders, and by the time she’s knocked on the door Amy no longer feels like she’s existing in some kind of surreal reality that isn’t quite her own and has also microwaved three bowlfuls of artificially-buttered, probably-jam-packed-with-cholesterol popcorn. They end up watching Beauty and the Beast and The Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Lion King one right after the other, and then Rosa gets up and decides she’s had enough of VCR tapes and sticks Toy Story 3 into the DVD player, which makes them _both_ cry – it’s late and there’s wine involved and Amy really wants to give all of those toys a hug. It’s close to three in the morning when Amy tells Rosa she can just crash on her couch, which is fine with Rosa because they both have the next day off and having impromptu sleepovers in wake of work-related almost-disasters is … kind of fun, actually.

Amy doesn’t check her phone for non-existent texts all night.

Thank God for Rosa.

**

Captain Holt calls Amy into his office the day after her day off. She stands in front of his desk with her back ramrod straight for a grand total of thirty seconds (she is no longer too overtired to count them) before he clears his throat and steeples his fingers in front of him.

“Detective Santiago,” he says, and Amy tries not to sway on the spot with nerves. The “detective Santiago” isn’t in B-flat, so he’s not disappointed in her and that’s good, but he’s also got his chin tilted up thirty degrees parallel the desk, which Amy isn’t _sure_ what it means but she’s never seen him do it before so – “Are you … alright?”

Amy gapes at him.

“Sir?”

“I meant to say that – ” Holt hesitates, looking as though he is profoundly uncomfortable with whatever he’s about to say next. “As your commanding officer, it is my duty to ensure your wellbeing. You have seemed particularly stressed these past weeks, and two days ago you were … not looking well at all.”

Oh. Oh, right. This must have something to do with the fact that Rosa either saw Amy stumbling to the bathroom from Holt’s office and excused herself quickly to chase after her, or that Holt saw her himself. Either way – Amy is mortified.

“I – I am completely, completely fine. Sir. Captain. Fine. The most fine. I am great.” She tacks the “great” onto the end for extra emphasis, nodding her head with finality. Holt raises an eyebrow.

“Santiago, if you need a day or two extra off, you may request it. I am aware that sometimes – these – there can be – ” he pauses again (that’s five pauses in the span of four minutes, Amy thinks frantically, he has never passed the two pause boundary before) “– I am aware that you may be. Affected. By certain developments these past months. You have also been working exhaustively on several cases at once. Requesting days off for your health is not something that will undermine your competence.”

Amy blushes, because that’s exactly what she thought it might do (and also the fact that she rescinds her previous all-that-time-ago statement and concedes that she has been stubborn enough to pretend that Everything Is Absolutely Fine, and that might not have been the smartest choice).

“I just had a day off yesterday, sir,” she says, bouncing once on her feet impulsively (God _damn_ it, Santiago, be _normal_ ) and pasting a smile that she really hopes is reassuring onto her face. “Thank you, Captain, but I am _more_ than capable of being – I, I mean. Of doing. My job. Of doing a fantastic job.”

She grimaces at the captain’s sigh (still not in B-flat, _phew_ ), but instead of dismissing her as she’d hoped, he leans forward very slightly. Amy is absurdly reminded of one of those scenes from a James Bond movie she saw ages ago, where the despotic villain was about to thoroughly intimidate their subordinate and – _God_ , Amy, _what the hell_. She quickly thinks about Teddy instead, and how their date last night was lovely and perfect and she’d suggested Chinese food because that seemed like a safe option and she keeps wondering why everything with Teddy has to be so _safe_ because, honestly, it’s now bordering on woefully uneventful despite the meticulous scheduling, and –

“Detective,” says Holt, frowning suddenly. “Your expression is uncomfortable.”

Amy feels like there would be nothing more fantastic than to burst into flames on the spot.

“N-no, sir. I mean I’m great. Very comfortable.” She tries grinning.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Holt hesitates again ( _oh God_ ) and seems to have difficulty getting the next statement out. “Because, if you are in any amount of discomfort as a result of the events of the past few months, I am – I would be willing. To talk. About … it.”

Amy gapes at him. Again.

“To clarify,” she begins, and it might have ended off as a statement because Holt nods.

“Yes.”

“To clarify, this, sir.”

“Yes.”

“Are we –?”

“Yes.”

“Talking about my … feelings?”

Holt blinks. “If you are comfortable doing so – yes.”

The absurdity of the fact that she is facing Captain Holt (who is undoubtedly at least partially aware of her equally-absurd emotional breakdown two days previous) in Captain Holt’s office, being encouraged by Captain Holt to talk about possible Jake Peralta-related emotional instability makes Amy open and close her mouth like a fish for the next three point five seconds.

Captain Holt continues watching her. He’s a very patient man.

Amy closes her mouth for the last time. “No, Captain. I’m fine. Thank you.”

He seems at least partially satisfied with her answer (and, if Amy dares think it, maybe a little bit relieved as well) and nods. Amy exhales heavily and lets her shoulders slump the tiniest amount.

“Very well, Santiago, you may leave. Please continue to take care of yourself.”

“Y-yes – yes, sir.”

It’s only once she’s at the door that she stops without thinking about it and swivels around, hands coming up in front of her of their own accord; Captain Holt looks at her expectantly.

“I – I mean. Sir?”

“Yes, Detective Santiago.”

“Is everything – are they – is it? He. Okay?”

(Later, she swears Holt gives her a ghost of a smile before answering – but she can’t be sure at all.)

“Yes. It is all okay, Detective.”

Amy sits back down at her desk and rolls her shoulders once, moving the files around on her desk and tossing her hair behind her shoulder.

She’s still mortified - _immensely_ so - but somehow, her breathing isn’t as erratic as it might have been, on a normal day.

_(It’s fine, he’s fine, everything’s fine.)_

**

Rosa and Gina start taking her out for drinks more often, just the three of them, dressing up and dressing down and trying new places just for kicks. It’s nice; Amy’s never been particularly good at _friends_ before. The few that she can kind-of-sort-of list have either been through work (miraculous and rare) or as a result of a high school American History project that kept them awake until two in the morning the night before the deadline, involved a batch of badly-burned sugar cookies, and bonded she and Kylie for life.

Amy learns that Gina is ridiculously good at spotting creeps at the bar before they can even begin to approach them; she learns that Rosa can drink both of them under the table while being simultaneously stellar at French-braiding hair. She also learns that they’re both incredibly loyal, however reluctant they may appear, and that for some strange reason, their company is, overall, more comforting than Teddy’s is. She still sees him as often as she possibly can, still spends time convincing her morning cup of coffee that her relationship with him is perfectly reasonable and smart and _nice_ , really nice, and he’s sweet and kind and good and an all-round decent kisser, too, so she really shouldn’t be discontent at all (even as Rosa’s curt comments ease warmth into her tensed-up shoulders and Gina’s insults make her smile – even, if she’s going down this road, as Charles’s insistence at teaching her how to make a decent panini makes her feel oddly at home, or as the excitement in the Sarge’s voice as he tells her his plans for altering the twins’ sleeping schedules a fifth time as he makes tea in the break room makes her anxiety slip away like no number of “how to meditate 101” YouTube tutorials never do).

(She puts her phone on silent when she gets home at night and rents Toy Stories 1 and 2, just because she feels like it, and manages to dial down her anxiety levels to a solid seven; still tense, but able to breathe and laugh without hurting herself. She feels semi-pathetic for considering it an accomplishment, but, well - she’ll take what she can get.)

They – after Rosa destroys three whiteboard markers consecutively and a memorable half-hour where Amy decides to lay face-down on the tiled floor – close the homicide case three and a half months after the tension in Amy’s shoulders first appears. It takes three sleepless nights, two fruitless four-hour stakeouts and one on-foot subway chase where Amy loses her favorite hair clip and Rosa gets a bloody nose before the bring the perp in, and when all the paperwork is done and they can finally go home and sleep with easy consciences, they don’t. Instead, they bring Indian takeout into the precinct late at night, perch on the table in the briefing room, get sloshed on slightly-soured wine and laugh in the face of their cluttered evidence whiteboard.

Amy’s never felt so triumphant in her life, even when she trips after stumbling to her feet and bashes her funny bone into the desk, or when they have to explain to Terry the next morning why there are samosa crumbs all over his briefing room floor.

As Amy should have expected, Jake brings in almost the entirety of the Iannuci crime family two months ahead of schedule, sporting a ridiculous earring, a shit-eating grin, and absolutely zero signs of ever having been in any danger at all.

(Later, they’ll be killing time during a longer-than-should-be-legally-allowed late-night stakeout, watching for a drug drop off, when he decides to beat her in a game of “intensity of various injuries sustained in the line of duty”. Hers was a broken arm, when the bone had split right through the skin four years before. Jake one-ups her by tugging up his shirt and proudly showing off the decoration of slowly-fading bruises along his ribcage in the shoddy car lighting; Amy has three seconds to brace herself before she learns that apparently, _shock and awe_ , each crime family has an initiation ceremony involving getting the shit beaten out of you and “you should’ve seen it, Ames, it was like, the worst moment of my life, literally _ever_ , but also _so_ badass, you don’t even know.” He grins, as though he didn’t just tell her flat out that he’d been gang-beaten, as though he doesn’t see her quickly masked look of shock – horror – oh, God, _whatever_ – that she conceals by rolling her eyes and conceding defeat. _Why, yes, Peralta, smashed ribs that still haven’t healed are higher on the list of intense injuries than my broken arm_ , fantastic.

She goes home that night, late, and texts him the most ridiculous Die Hard poster she can dig up on Google images and he sends back ten heart emojis consecutively and she lies on her bed for twenty minutes hating the fact that she was right in worrying about him, even though in some weird, absurd way, she really shouldn’t have.)

It’s funny (and Amy uses the term _funny_ in a very interpretive way) because she’d spent so much time worrying that something would happen, that something would go wrong _(things always go wrong)_ or that someone would get hurt ( _people always get hurt_ ) that she never thought to prepare herself for what she would say if he did come back completely unscathed. As it is, Amy spends the whole twenty minutes at work that morning staring at her computer and wondering why she decided that pretending his confession never even happened was a good idea because now, he’s going to be here, in the room, smiling and laughing and doing dumb Jake things, and Amy doesn’t know what to say.

(Because the irony of the whole thing would be that after four months dancing along the This Is Probably Hazardous For Your Health line surrounded by a bunch of mobsters, the one to finally hurt him would be her.)

She organizes her emails twice over (once alphabetically and once by importance, scanning each subject line before ranking them), proofreads one com-stat report and taps out the entirety of the Titanic theme song onto her desk with the tip of her pen before Jake finally walks in, bag slung over his shoulder and leather jacket intact and grinning like he’s never going to stop.

It’s even funnier that after fourth months of tortured shoulders and building anxiety and emoji-less existence – of telling herself that Jake is like a _brother_ to her and that everything with Teddy is perfectly _fine_ (it _is_ ), of sleepless nights chasing murders and challenging Rosa to drinking competitions, the thing that finally comes to her rescue, as she’s standing in the evidence lock-up with her heart in her throat and hoping desperately that she doesn’t look as panicked as she feels – is Joe Uterus.

(It’s precisely that moment that she feels the ache in her neck slip away completely and lets herself laugh; she is no longer waiting.

That – and Joe Uterus is being put on the Weird Names list immediately.)

The second thing that comes to Amy’s rescue is Jake’s own failed attempt at playing it cool, which, while confusing and hurtful and jarring at once (so very not like Jake, and for a moment she really does panic because – what? She was just conveniently there –?) also gives her the whole day to collect her thoughts – so that when he does come (awkward and hesitant and still sporting the swollen cut over his eyebrow from that day’s wild goose chase after the one guy that got away) and re-confesses his confession, she’s ready to run away from her own confusion with all the appropriate determination and Santiago drive and say it, firmly and calmly:

_I’m with someone, nothing’s going to happen._

And then he grins (and _God_ , does her chest expand with relief – _relief_ , she tells herself, not warmth at seeing his grin again, half-hearted and stuttering though it may be) and Amy hears the words, “Title of your sex tape,” for the first time in fourth months, and everything seems to slot back into place, if only for just a little while.


End file.
